Half awake in a fake empire
by Valhalla
Summary: Post-finale. It's not fair that your life so far's been measured in years spent waiting. Or, Frederick wakes up. Frederick/Abigail, mentions of Regina/Evil Queen, David/Prince James and Mary Margaret/Snow White.


**Title:** Half-awake in a fake empire  
**Characters/Pairings:** Jim/Frederick, Kathryn/Abigail, mentions of Regina/Evil Queen, David/Prince James and Mary Margaret/Snow White; Frederick/Abigail  
**Rating:**PG-13  
**Summary:** Post-finale. _It's not fair that your life so far's been measured in years spent waiting._ (Or, Frederick wakes up.)  
**Spoilers/Warnings:** Up until 1x22, pure speculation after that; some cursing.  
**Disclaimer:** Not mine.  
**A/N: **Title from The National. Credit to this theory for partly inspiring this story (or at the very least for the headcanon it's framed around).

* * *

You're out running when you remember - when it hits you.

And it does _hit_ you, with a force that almost bowls you over, half an hour in and a couple miles away from that well your runs always seem to wander past, never entirely on purpose. Sweating and breath coming hard and jarred to a stop, on automatic you think _earthquake_but you've subbed enough for Mrs. Henderson's third-grade science class that you know Maine almost never gets hit like this. You've just about righted yourself, started to wonder whether you should be worried about a stroke or something, when all of it begins to creep in.

It starts as a slow trickle of memories, as you steady yourself on your feet; just impressions.

Of your mother's touch, gentle as she tucked you into bed; of your saddle creasing against your knees and the thunder of hooves; of cold steel, steady in your grip.

(_Blonde hair and blue eyes and that smile_)

Then it's a tidal rush.

Thoughts, feelings, colours and sounds and smells and _words_ (like your real name, like saying your wedding vows, like swearing your oath to protect the king), not a gym teacher but a knight - a _prince_ - of Midas's realm. The memories keep coming, so many and so fast it's like your mind can't hold them all and they blossom and ebb away like they're slipping through a sieve. _Abigail_, you think, desperate, and then it's the scent of fresh hay, then a blanket of stars stretched across the night sky, an expanse of velvet black across the tops of the trees. And laughter; tiny, chubby hands twined around your neck, the perfect surety of your child safe in your arms -

(_My girls_)

- and love. True love. It takes you a minute to piece it together, that warm feeling that seems to sink right down to your bones. Familiar, though the impression of it now makes the ache of its absence before even keener. And suddenly you get why this life - _Jim's_ life - has always felt like a washed-out imitation of something better, a shadow of what it could be. Why no one ever really seemed to fit as well as they should have. Your parents, your brother, your ex-girlfriends ... hell, you even spent half a second considering asking Ms. Blanchard out one time (_Snow - gods, that was Snow_) because she was pretty and helped you figure out the coffee maker in the teachers' lounge and because her sadness always reminded you of your own.

You start running again, fast and hard until the breath burns in your lungs, back towards the house you know your wife used to share with James. That's where you keep your thoughts - your feet slam against the asphalt, pain starting to lance through your shins, travelling up your legs - on your wife who's alive and safe even with bruises still blushing pale against her skin, because you've found each other and if you start to think about whether the rest of your family is out there (and worse, if they're not) then you might lose your damn mind.

Because it's not fair - it's not fair that your life so far's been measured in years spent waiting, trapped and torn away from the people you love. A decade and a half training to become the captain of Midas's guard, to be worthy of your princess's hand. Five years in gold while the world moved on and Abigail grieved. (_It's a shame_, the Evil Queen had said when she appeared on one of your scouting runs the week before the wedding, trying to barter for a spy in Midas's inner circle on your parents' tainted memory and their traitor's blood, _my friends seem to have a habit of avoiding bad luck._)

You get one year - one perfect, wonderful year - with Abigail, and when she mentions the orphans from the Ogre Wars in the village, the ones who so desperately need parents, and you see the two little girls with dark-coloured curls hiding behind her skirts - that's when everything finally, fully starts to makes sense. That _this_is your happy ending.

Only it doesn't last, because the Evil Queen won't rest until Snow's destroyed and everything goes with her, and all of it disappears into a curse that turns your wife into a stranger and your daughters gone and everything fucking _wrong_ in a way that makes you want to stop running and stop _fighting_and let the world crash and burn around you if you think about it too much.

(Salt stings your eyes. Sweat or tears, you can't tell.)

You stop thinking and keep running, the feel of the road under your feet keeping you anchored as you wind back into the heart of town and finally to Abigail's street. To her house.

By the time you reach her porch you're a wreck - sweat ringed around the collar of your T-shirt, red-faced and huffing - and the way you knock (bang, actually, hammering on the door with your fist) has got to be making her panic but you can't stop, not when all that's separating you from the love of your life is a piece of wood and not overprotective fathers or evil queens or gold, and you fully intend to climb in through a damn _window_if you have to -

The window, as it turns out, doesn't end up having to be an option, because on your fifth or sixth knock the door flies open and there's Abigail, one hand trembling against her mouth, white and wide-eyed and like she's seen a ghost, and in a second you know _she remembers too_. And you only have that second to think because then she's in your arms, fingers curled into the fabric of your shirt and body pressed tight to yours, her tears warm against your neck.

You stand together on her porch, everything so silent and still it's almost eerie except for the quiet sobs when Abigail gasps out a breath. You don't move, either of you, because to move means the fight's starting again, the constant battle just to cling to what you love. And though you know now you won't ever stop, you want to stay in the moment for just a second, and love your wife and worry about your daughters and not think about the curse or the Queen or the fate of your realm. Just a second, and then you're going to find the rest of your family, find Snow and James and all the others, and figure out how to take back a kingdom.

And your sword.

You're definitely gonna need your sword.


End file.
